


Fairy Reasonable

by fenella



Category: Fire and Hemlock - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenella/pseuds/fenella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which neither Seb nor Laurel are as funny as they'd like to think, and Seb tries to go down swinging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fairy Reasonable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [team_fen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/team_fen/gifts).



> With apologies to Sebastian Melmoth (aka Oscar Wilde), The Doors, The Nutcracker, Casey at the Bat, and DWJ herself.  
> Merry Yuletide! xoxo

The King’s Ascension is a midwinter affair, which means that Seb has just over a month and a half to convince Laurel that he is unfit to be her King. To sell his unhinged stepmother, fiance, or Queen, whatever, on the idea that finding a replacement is a better option than suffering the humiliation that he, Sebastian Casey Leroy, will inevitably bring to her reign.

It's with this agenda that Seb makes sad-dog eye contact with his reflection in the mirror, half dressed for the day at work. Seb sighs, reluctantly removing his tie from his outfit of denial. He has bigger problems than showing up to the office as a junior lawyer who appears to have only the vaguest concept of what it means to iron a shirt. But when Seb's gaze lands on a piece of dark fabric at the back of his closet, hidden away between old uniforms and costume party odds and ends, inspiration strikes. If he, with one foot firmly in the human world, finds v-necks to be tacky and mildly irritating, Laurel is guaranteed to find them unbearable.

A few gleeful minutes later Seb is wearing indecently small yellow jean shorts, and a black shirt with a deeply plunging neckline. The overall effect is overwhelmingly 'lothario bumblebee at the beach'. Ray Bans perched atop his head, Seb winks at his reflection in the mirror. He’s starting small, but operation SLUMP (Sebastian Leroy: Unfit Monarch of the People) is a GO.

*

Laurel’s throne room is a suffocating honey colour, but it lends the Queen an illusion of warmth and affection. She cuts a stunning image, arranged carefully on a tall, walnut chair. Minstrels, courtiers and ladies-in-waiting sprawl outwards from her throne, like wayward planets orbiting their sun. Laurel’s white and golden skirts trail artfully down the stairway, yellow flowers woven with care into her mass of untamed hair.

“Sebastian,” Laurel claps her hands in delight when he appears across the ballroom floor, her voice carrying effortlessly. “What a wonderful surprise.”

Seb allows himself to lean into a sulky posture. It has literally only been days, after all, since Laurel threw his father to the Hounds of Hell.

“Laurel,” he says. “You look lovelier than a bear at midnight. Might I have a moment of your time?”

There's some scandalized whispering amongst Laurel's faithful attendants, but Seb's Queen does nothing more than incline her head before they're alone. Laurel and Seb appear to be in a snowy meadow fenced by slate grey mountains, the distance between them fading to nothing. The landscape is vast, and their isolation is eerily intimate. Seb can’t recall ever being so alone with the Queen before.

He feels a soft touch to the back of his hand, and Seb has to steel himself not to back away. “Darling,” says Laurel. “Is everything alright?”

Words are spilling from Seb’s mouth before he can think twice. “Of course not. Nothing's alright, Laurel. Don’t you feel sadness, or remorse, about Dad?”

Holding Laurel’s gaze, Seb wills away any embarrassment over his outburst with memories of leaving Hunsdon House; first without his mother, and nine years later by himself. 

“Of course I feel sadness,” she chides softly, as if speaking to a child. “Morton was a loyal companion these past hundred years. You’re still so young, Sebastian, life and death are different when you’re my age.”

Seb bites back a bitter laugh. No, you cling to life all the more desperately when you’re the age of a melting glacier. How charming.

Laurel fixes Seb with a fond look. "You've grown quickly, you know. Not so long ago you would have called me an unfeeling cow."

Seb opens his mouth, bites back a sarcastic reply. Play it cool, Leroy. Stick to the feeble plan.

“Now, is there anything else?” asks Laurel, glancing disparagingly at Seb’s flimsy outfit, no match for the frosty air she's produced for this conversation. “I wouldn’t want to see you catch a cold.”

One point to you, Seb acknowledges grimly.

*

“I don’t understand your traditions,” says Laurel a bit petulantly, as they press closer in the crowd on the sidewalk. Seb is impressed, in spite of himself; Laurel is here, in the cold, watching the Middleton Christmas parade. His woeful speech about sharing not just Laurel’s traditions as they move forward, but his too, has apparently backfired and made an impression. “The floats are garish, and the whole thing is an extravagant display of ill-conceived nonsense.”

“I love it,” says Seb doggedly, hating every minute of the colourful procession. He dislikes standing in the cold at least as much as Laurel does, and finds the procession of fake elves and baton twirlers to be a bewildering ensemble of talentless hacks. Both Laurel and Seb are accustomed to the graceful spectacle of the Fairy Courts.

Laurel turns her face up to stare at Seb’s face imploringly, and he reaches deep into his memories to find some holiday spirit. “The best part is yet to come,” he promises. “The Nutcracker float is always just before Father Christmas.”

Laurel hums in consideration before admitting that she does, in fact, like The Nutcracker.

“Because of the Sugar Plum Fairy?” quips Seb.

“Herr Drosselmeyer,” corrects Laurel. He thinks that she is making a joke, maybe.

Seb takes Laurel’s small, cold hand in his and drops them both inside the large square pocket on the outside of his grey woolen coat.

“I might enjoy this after all,” says Laurel. “I’ll take you for a coffee afterwards.”

“Decaf,” agrees Sebastian, remembering his plan to engage in all the most horrible of human trappings.

Laurel gives him a dark look, her fingers tightening around his own. “Most certainly not.” 

*

When Seb wakes up, it's in the Wicklow House of his childhood. An army of mice are doing acrobatics across his bedroom floor, tumbling towards life-sized soldiers dressed for military combat of years gone by. Seb can hear his parents' festivity downstairs in the distance, the dull rumble of the King's Court. Peering over his blankets, Seb blinks in confusion; the leader of the soldiers bears a striking resemblance to Thomas Lynn.

"Laurel," grumbles Seb, rubbing his eyes blearily, and the Lynn soldier looks over at him in surprise. 

"You're not Polly Whitcracker," says the soldier, after a moment. He shakes his head and corrects himself, "I mean Polly Nutcracker. Damn it, Dolly Whittaker."

All of a sudden, it's obvious to Seb what this is. The Nutcracker looks at him sadly and does a tentative pirouette before saying, "Shall we go through with this, then? If you save me from the Mouse King, I'll take you to my home, the Land of Sweets." 

"Nope," says Seb. "Nopity, nope."

"Really?" frowns the Nutcracker. "There's someone waiting for you there."

"I'm going back to sleep now," says Seb contrarily. "Tell Leslie that I say hullo."

Thomas Lynn Nutcracker is visibly taken aback. "You don't even want to see if it's really your parents downstairs?"

Seb rolls his eyes. "Not even Laurel's that good. Polly and so on are wearing wigs, yeah? I thought you were a free man now."

The Nutcracker fixes Seb with a quizzical stare; it's patented Thomas Lynn, suspended somewhere between desperation and kind pity. "I thought that would be obvious, Melmoth the Wanderer."

"Oi, be a bit more cryptic."

Tom shrugs apologetically, another signature move. "Sorry, Gothic novel. It's one of your Moorcock's favourites. All I mean is that you're never really free, when you've forced your own binding contract on to some other poor sod. Life isn't that simple, we have to live with our choices."

"I'm a lawyer, I love contracts," snipes Seb for no reason other than to be obnoxious. "And bad choices, I love those too. So basically, you've come to ease your guilty conscience, then?"

Tom shakes his head, gives Seb a look of consideration. "You know, I'd like to have children one day, without the fear that they're next on your list."

"Look Tom, you know I don't like the idea of having a list. And if it's not me, there will be someone else. It's not like everybody can win. That's not how it works in any world."

"Maybe," says Tom reluctantly, before he's devoured by a family of giant mice.

Even as Seb hides his face under the blanket that his mother knit for him in another lifetime, he knows that SLUMP is dead in the water. Which is a shame, because Seb's really learning to love the sound of Laurel grinding her teeth.

* 

If Seb's human instincts hate Laurel for what she's done to his family, his fairy heart wants to admit that she's a formidable Queen. Fairyland has prospered under her reign, and she rules with a sense of charm and ferocity that is unprecedented. Since campaigning for her crown, the King and Queen's courts have been united under her careful and clever charm.

Seb knows that he can make a break from Laurel, and live the rest of his human life away from her Courts. He could manage that much. But if Seb's being honest, Laurel isn't the problem; she's funny, smart, and despite all odds, she's family.

The second option, Seb doesn't want to consider. If he tried to force thing back to the old way, too many people would be caught in the crossfire. King's Court against Queen's Court, two separate entities. And most likely, Seb would be dead on a spit after two or three days. He know this, too well.

But what Seb doesn't know, what he's quietly passing around, is if he can manipulate (or even end) the nine-year-tax that Laurel has arranged with Hell. The tithe serves a very clear purpose, and brings health to not only the throne, but the entirety of their people. Laurel will kill him if he goes behind her back. Probably.

* 

In Laurel's chambers, Seb is being fitted for his coronation. As deft fairy fingers work with velvet and brocade, Seb looks over to Laurel, where she is supervising and delegating tasks from the corner.

"Laurel," he begins with determination, when she pauses for a moment. "Have you ever made any decisions where, well, in hindsight you wish there had been a better option?"

Her eyes widen in Seb's direction. "I'm not in the habit of second guessing myself."

"Never?"

Laurel nods a indiscreet thank you towards her tailor, indicating that he should leave them be. "What's this really about?"

After a pause, Seb decides that it's best to be forthright. Confidence is key, in dealing with Laurel. "I'm worried that I'm not strong enough to hold King's Court together. That the act of trying will leave me spent before the end of nine years. And also I'm worried about taking human lives. I _like_  Leslie."

Laurel reaches one hand towards Seb, and when he's close enough, her touch ghosts around his hips.

"Darling boy," she says. "You'll find the courage you need."

*

Despite taking place at the heart of winter, Seb's Ascension is orchestrated with more fire than ice. The lengthy procession takes his company from Wicklow House, which is perched across Middleton from Hundson House, over farmer's fields and towards the sea. They arrive at a large mound, site of an old wooden barn, and to one side they light a raging bonfire to keep the sun burning the East. At sunset when both Queen and King's courts merge together indoors, thousands of lights hang from the worn rafters, radiating warmth from the heavens.

Seb pledges his loyalty to the people of King's Court, and to his Queen.

The dancing stretches into early hours of the morning, and when Laurel kisses the corner of Seb's mouth, she tastes of berries and wine.

*

Light flickers from the candles on the walls of the basement pub where Seb's court is gathered in London. Human lawyers mix with fairy revelers, as the sounds of indie grunge squeeze through groaning amps. To Seb's immediate left sit his fellow associates, Flynn and Jimmy Blake, belligerently arguing the subtleties of a work case. To Seb's right is Leslie, happily nursing a beer. The band's lyrics are indecipherable amongst the racket, and so Leslie is singing his own. From what Seb can tell, Leslie's versions are mostly 'Light My Fire' with a smattering of Arctic Monkeys. Seb is hopelessly endeared.

"Babe," says Leslie with a wink, when he sees Seb staring so openly. Leslie's hand rests on Seb's thigh, a warm and heavy weight. Seb places his own hand on top of Leslie's and traces slow circles with his thumb. 

Seb leans in to kiss his boyfriend. "Love, you mean the world to me."

Leslie's grin widens, slow and sure. "It's mutual," he says. "And we're disgusting. Look, we've got company."

Seb follows Leslie's gaze to the stairs where the Lynns, Polly and Tom, are traipsing through the thick crowd of people, one seamless unit.  _The Lynns: Always a Buzkill._ It could be their movie franchise tagline. 

Polly is wearing a brown leather jacket that does nothing to conceal her growing belly. When she and Tom reach the table where Seb's inner circle are sat, Seb holds up his glass in toast. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," says Polly. "I think."

Tom wraps an arm over her shoulders protectively, and she leans in instinctively. They fit, Tom and Polly. It makes Seb bristle, even now. 

Leslie frowns between them. "Boy or girl," he prompts bluntly.

When Tom admits it's a boy, Seb can feel Leslie cringe without looking. He squeezes the hand that's still wrapped around Leslie's.

"Don't worry," says Seb, eyes locked with Polly, but not sure who he's trying to convince. "I've got this."

*

Laurel's thorough. She's made sure that she has clear ownership of the lives she's using to pay her taxes, but her understanding of the taxation system is basic, at best. Lucky for her, the new King has made a mortal career of pouring through property and tax documents.

"Sebastian," screeches Laurel, storming into his bedroom and effectively draining the room of warmth.  The windows rattle in their panes, and fire in the hearth dies at once. Leslie stirs against Seb's side, where he's curled in his sleep, but Seb places a reassuring kiss on his forehead before slipping out of bed.

"Wicklow House is private," sniffs Seb haughtily. "I inherited this property, and you need to ask before appearing inside my home."

Laurel laughs, "You are mine, and by extension-"

"Let's go talk in my office. I thought you might have some questions about ownership of people, and places."

Laurel is furious, her face twisted in betrayal. "Ownership! I found out about an alleged Third Court this morning. Made a fool, in _my_ own home."

Seb nods, opening the door for Laurel, and showing her down the corridor. "Oh yes, that. It's the Court of the Living see," explains Seb matter of factly. "For our guests - it's a kind of pool for the inbetweeners. And it's our offshore tax haven!"

"Our _what_?"

"Offshore tax haven," repeats Seb plainly. "The outside lives that come into our home, they're no longer assets belonging to my court or yours. They are of this other place with it's own laws and thus, can not be used to pay the tithe. You'll find that the very compelling Edna Lynn has a lot of support for Chair Person at the moment. The politics are fascinating."

Laurel is at a loss for words. "You idiot," she snaps, after a moment of deafening silence. "We'll die."

"Maybe," agrees Seb. "Or we could find a way that doesn't rely on human sacrifice, like everyone else. You'll find that most of our courtiers are fond of that idea."

For three heart-stopping seconds, Seb thinks that Laurel is going to murder him. Right here, in cold blood, with Leslie sleeping down the corridor. And there are three even more excruciating seconds, where Seb can see straight into Laurel's chilly soul, can feel her devising a fate much worse for all eternity.

When instead Laurel bursts into shaky laugh, breaking the charged intensity in the room, Seb is astonished. Laurel looks as though she is too.

"Are you... alright?" asks Seb carefully.

The corners of Laurel's mouth hover somewhere just before up, and she's still clearly surprised by her own behaviour.

"I haven't felt that much anger in a thousand years. Maybe longer."

Seb inches away slowly. "Oh, well, heh. Heh. Good job, me."

Laurel gives Seb an annoyed look. "Stop cowering in the corner, Sebastian. I'm not going to kill you. Not yet, anyways - you actually might be a worthy partner."

Seb smiles smugly at Laurel. "I always knew you liked me best."

"I did no such thing," she scoffs. "Don't be insufferable."

"I'm your best King ever," insists Seb.

Laurel rolls her eyes. "I take it back, I'm going to kill you for being an obnoxious brat."

"I'm woooorthy."

They both freeze when Leslie's usually even-tempered voice bellows angrily down the hallway. "It's three in the _goddamn_  fairy fucking morning. If no one's death is imminent, I would appreciate it if you would both be quiet!"

Laurel and Seb struggle to hide their guilty snickers. 

At length, Laurel pats Seb softly on the cheek. "Go back to bed, Sebastian. I'll be angry with you in the morning."

 


End file.
